Blood on the Keys
by Bitter Cynic
Summary: A sort of biography of Lex Luthor, inspired by the scene in "Spell" in which a cursed Lex continues to play the piano despite bleeding fingers.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Smallville. Or Lex. 

**Description:** A sort of biography of Lex Luthor, inspired by the scene in "Spell" in which a cursed Lex continues to play the piano despite bleeding fingers. Probably contradicts a lot of the cannon facts of Lex's life, and is based almost entirely on an annoying Smallville fanfiction cliché. Enjoy. 

**Blood on the Keys**

"Play," my father commands. I lift my hands above the keys of the grand piano, my fingers quivering uncontrollably. The ivory keys, cool the touch, send a jolt down my spine as I touch them. Sometimes I just want to look at the piano; the stark contrast of the keys, the curves of the great lid propped open exposing a world of strings and hammers, and the wet smooth sheen to the dark wood. I feel as if I am unworthy to touch it, yet my father repeats, "Play." 

I glance upward, and catch sight of sheets of music yellowed with age, edges frayed from constant use. I have seen them a thousand times, I know their secrets well. Wanting to laugh with relief, I sit up straighter on the bench, and play. Notes flow through my fingers like water. I feel like a conduit for a greater power, its energy pulsing through me, filling me with life. The power of the music guides me, it understands me, and I do not care that my fingers burn and ache. There is one thing that, no matter how hard he tries, Father cannot control.

* * *

Nothing beats the muffled pop of a cork on a bottle of my father's best single malt scotch. I try not to think about how it's only Wednesday and I'm already drinking before noon. Best to not let the bad days, weeks, months get to you. Just focus on the now, the decanter in my fist, and the empty glass glinting expectantly on the desk. 

A few quiet glugs as it flows out the neck of the bottle, and the glass is filled with that delicious elixir of joy and pain. I love the look of scotch in a glass; holding it up to catch the light of the window, I watch the cut glass sparkle in the morning sunlight. It's funny. I don't know why. I'm not an alcoholic. Suddenly I'm laughing, swinging my arm up in a pretend toast, I'm all alone, I take a celebratory swig, so jubilant I nearly swash scotch all over my face. And I wouldn't have minded. 

Laughing, harder and harder, swinging circles in my chair I swallow, again and again till that last ring on the bottom of the glass is all that remains. It's subsided to a giggle now, but I want it back. Lunging forward, pouring a bigger glass this time, something nags me in the back of my mind. It's that little voice so easily ignored, part cautionary, part scolding, part excitement, that little whisper saying, "I'm drunk." 

I love it. I've loved it since I was a child, that first time Father forced champagne down my throat and it warmed me. It warmed me deep down where nothing else could touch me. It made me feel a little bit human and a little less Lionel Luthor. And every time I raise the glass and take a gulp it brings me a little closer to me, a little farther from Daddy Dearest. I'm not an alcoholic.

* * *

"Papa," I whine softly, my voice echoing in the gloom. I shift my hands back and forth, the rope is prickly, it digs into my wrists. As my eyes adjust to the dim I feel the ropes tighten. They hurt, my bones rebel. I cry out again, "Papa, why..." and receive a smack on the shoulder with the willow wand as a reply. "Papa, Papa you're hurting me, it hurts..." Another crack across my fingers and I descend into sobs. 

The voice harsh and husky bites my ears through the silence of the basement room. "Pain is the best teacher. I will not raise a son who weeps and wails at the slightest discomfort. You are too spoiled as it is." And those hands are shoving me back, down, hard against the cold cement floor. Metal screeching, and the resounding bang of a door shut. The latch click lingers in the stale air as I writhe, struggling, my hands and feet bound and I feel the blood on my fingers seeping stinging my hands. 

"Papa..."

* * *

"Happy Birthday, Lex. You're another year older. I'm so proud of you," I whisper to myself as I rush down the long corridor, fussing with my collar. I'm twenty-one now, can't afford to look like a slob anymore. I'm on my own. I can drink, smoke, drive, have sex, piss off my dad, even run a business. 

No birthday candles waiting for me. It's still a little disappointing, coming down to dinner on the night of the one day of the year that should be mine alone to find only a grubby package on the dining room table. And there it is, as I ease into one of at least thirty rosewood chairs, I've never bothered to count, ripping off the paper wondering what war general or politician or philosopher Father has lined up for me now. 

But it isn't an old dog eared paperback this year. It's a small leather case, soft and polished, so unlike my father. It snaps open on a hinge and inside I want to scream. I want to scream and stomp through the chair. 

Soft, crisp, brand new one hundred dollar bills. Money. For my twenty-first birthday, my training is complete. No more Machiavelli or Caesar or Nietzche, just cold hard cash. I'm a grown up now, no messing around, I hear that little voice whispering in my mind. I am no longer Alexander Luthor. I am LuthorCorp.

* * *

"Here's to you, Dad," I say, hardly containing my giggles of glee. The decanter is beautiful, I'm in love with it at first sight. That crystal shimmers, sending iridescent sparkles dancing inside the cabinet. I handle it carefully; this is the strong stuff. I'm not an alcoholic. 

I reach for a glass, think better of it, and take a quick sip straight from the decanter. It's delicious. I'm swooning, I want to faint, I cast my eyes to the piano. The dark wood still gleams in the sunlight, those keys still immaculate after all these years. Suddenly my fingers are twitching again, for the first time in a decade. I need those keys. 

I take my place on the bench, and I'm big. I'm dwarfing this poor piano. It's finally my size, but it's not the giant anymore, I am. Father made me leave the piano. He said music wasn't power, I needed to focus on power. But he is wrong. Music is power. Music is more power than money can handle. I place the decanter on the lid. I'm not worried about damaging the wood. Hell, why should I be? 

Ah, the sheet of music resting on the piano. Gathering dust, I see, but still legible. Mozart's unfinished Requiem. For a moment I can't recall, but my fingers know. My fingers remember. 

In perfect harmony my hands play out the resonating notes, almost independent of me. I'm just listening to a concert. Then I let the left hand go on its own; the piece feels halting and severed, but I need the right hand. It grasps the neck of the decanter and heaves it to my lips. 

I drink. One swallow after another, it warms me, I'm farther and farther away. The left hand still knows, still giving Mozart that lilting half life, the only kind I ever had. Until the fingers slow, then stop. The decanter slides through my fingers, crashing, scattering deadly crystal edges. I can't hear the loud clinks of breaking crystal, and I can't hear my head slowly fall to the keyboard, to play the final chord of the requiem. 


End file.
